


An Unwanted Alternative to Nothing

by TreeFrogSoup



Category: A Practical Guide to Evil - erraticerrata, Pact - Wildbow
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Magic, Pactdie Canon ahead, inconsistent tense usage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreeFrogSoup/pseuds/TreeFrogSoup
Summary: Rosalyn D Thorburn believed she was correct. She believed that, when the chronomancy keeping her alive failed, she's be destroyed and rendered into nothing by the demons she once summoned and made deals with.She was incorrect in her belief.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	1. "I'm afraid you have me confused."

Whatever this accursed part of the Abyss was called, it was sandy, buffeting and yet - ever so strangely - not as hostile as I anticipated. Wind swept past my thin, white nightgown that I believed that I had died in at the stroke of midnight, according to the Chronomancy that Aimon had used to extend my life in exchange for teaching Aimon and his son, Laird Behaim on how to combat Demons, and more importantly, Diabolists.

I'd have expected to hear or see things in the wind. Russel, telling me that when I died, he hoped it would suck. Irene, cursing me out after I told my children that only my grandchildren could qualify for the inheritance. Charles, my first son, gone mad. Things like that.

Perhaps the Abyss knew that such memories wouldn't _really_ effect me? That they didn't truly make the sort of cuts that would provoke me into complying with it's wants?

The sand still buffeted my clothes and skin, but I didn't abrade. Sand didn't carve or gouge away, my flesh still felt mine, if a little raw.

Nonetheless, I pressed onwards, into the wind, across sandy dunes and dead trees. Nearly every part of the Abyss has exits if you know where to look. The hard part was actually getting out.

I wondered why this desert was so... truly desert-like. Was it because I had cavorted with Diabolism? A woman who'd spent a lifetime dealing with Others that specialised in making things no longer exist cast, oh so fittingly, to a part of the abyss where there was nothing at all, but sad, time to reflect, and the slow bearing down of wind?

Somebody shouted something in a language I didn't understand. I turned to the distinctly masculine voice, and saw a black man, waving from a short distance away.

_Why didn't I see him?_

He said more, but I shook my head. "I don't speak that language," I shouted back over the wind.

"I guess we speak Lower Miezan, then."

_Lower what?_

The man was white, with black hair cut short, and what looked to be a knight's armour that was rather dulled from usage. Behind him, but not too far away, stood a black man wearing an agbeda that was mostly dark red crimson, but had gold and black embroidered trim, with cornrows through his hair.

Human, at first glance. I looked at the pair with my Sight and saw things flare on both of them. There was an essence of darkness from the man in armour, as the shadows in his suit stood out more, covered more, even when they shouldn't. From the black man behind him, glimpses of some very elaborate enchantments in his clothing and jewellery became apparent, connections to other places, to other parts of his own jewellery and clothes, interlinked.

Practitioners, then.

"We do have a camp nearby, it would be easier if we spoke there."

The wind died down, a little. letting the words digest. Letting what wasn't said to sound out louder.

"I can't help but notice," I said, testing my words, "That you didn't promise that you wouldn't harm me if I was to come with you."

The man in the armour smiled thinly, his green eyes gleaming.

I didn't have Arsepint, my familiar. I didn't have the Thorburn Manor, my demense. I didn't have my fountain pen, my implement. I had not a single ounce of material to use barring my nightgown, my newly granted youth, my knowledge and my wit.

And as much as uneducated and whimsical fools insist that pens are mightier than swords, swords are very good at showing off a lot of might very quickly.

"Amadeus," the man in armour's companion said. "This isn't the time. I'm looking for weaknesses in the fabric of Creation, and you promised to help, for whatever forsaken reason you chose."

What did I have on me of use? Myself, my body, my gown, my mind.

Not much of value.

 _Even my useless children whom were denied the chance to practice magic would be in a better spot than I am, if they were here instead of myself,_ I thought bitterly.

I could summon something, but it would likely backfire, anything summoned may be bounced back. Any Demons I called - a last resort if I had to say so myself - would likely kill _all_ of us and leave to cause further, irreparable destruction.

Using blood for shamanism, or even elementalism may be the only thing I could afford to do, if it were to come to a fight, but it didn't need to. Not yet. They were bickering, and if gave me time to plan, to think. To put the right words together.

The man in amour - Black - turned to his companion. "It's fine, Warlock. I'm pretty sure we found the answer to your conundrum."

_Warlock._

The word made me pause, because it had something there, it forged a connection with my attention, as if it was important, or had power.

"Her?" The Warlock spat, dismissing me. "She doesn't have the Gift, Black."

_Black._

A second thrum of something hit me.

"Think about it Wekesa, it's an obvious Story playing out. two people wandering the desert, looking for something, happening to meet a mysterious stranger?"

 _Story?_ _I shouldn't have been thinking of the Abyss,_ I realised.

This was more in line with Finder Magic. I was inside one of their Paths, instead.

Furthermore, thinking of what was said between Amadeus and Wekesa, they wanted information from me, something I may be able to give. I'm valuable for what little I had, and I intended to eek out what little worth it was for now.

"She's not a mysterious stranger, Black, she's just some-"

I raised my hands in an attempt to appease.

"I'm afraid you have me confused," I said out aloud. "Which of the Paths are you two Finder Mages on, to be here?"

Wekesa, the black man, stopped whatever he was about to finish saying and turned to me, before tilting his head, and turning back to Amadeus, who said nothing, and didn't move.

"I'm not being smug," Amadeus said, smugly.

Wekesa rubbed his eyes with his hand. "I think you may be someone I want to talk to."

"I'm still not going with either of you without a promise of safety," I replied, a small smile slipping my lips.

"Very well then," Amadeus said. "I promise that myself, Weseka over there, or any of my other companions will not try to harm you unless you attack us fir-"

"Not 'try to', that's a poor phrasing. use 'act with deliberate intent to harm' instead."

"I promise that myself, Wekesa over there, or any of my other companions will not act with deliberate intent to harm you unless you attack us first."

"For as long a I'm with you," I added.

"You're very fussy for a woman in just a nightgown."

"I know I have answers to questions you want to ask, so I'm going to be as fussy as I want." I raised my hands to the sky, gesturing at nearly everything around us.

"I'm tired, my hair is filled with sand, and if you can't tell, these clothes don't suit a desert sandstorm, Amadeus."

"...for as long as you are with my companions."

I thought about the wording. it was as good as I was going to get. I still didn't understand what exactly was going on, but it was a start.

"Okay," I said, stepping towards them. It was a gamble, and I had developed a very wise habit of avoiding luck and chance when I had inherited generations of Thorburn karma, but still, I was out of decent options.

"Let us try to have at least some form of amicable interaction," I held out my hand. "Rosalyn D Thorburn. Lawyer. I'm very lost, I'm not afraid to admit."

Amadeus held out his hand. "Amadeus of the Green Stretch. Black Knight of the Dread Empire of Praes, and Backer of Dread Empress Malicia for the Tower."

"I have no clue what any of that means," I said.

Amadeus smiled. "You must be very, very lost indeed. Come, we've got some food and shelter nearby."

Against all common sense, I followed.


	2. "She's a guest."

The camp was more a small fort, really. Wooden stakes formed walls and stuck outwards, with tents in the middle and even several scorpions made from wood on the inside. It was so medieval that I stumbled in the sand, almost falling down a dune at the sight as it hit me.

It wouldn't have been my most dignified moment, but I had lesser ones, especially when I was learning how to practice my magic. It was so primitive.

The camp itself was it's own shock.

Green skinned little goblins ran around, and while a sense of loss at Arsepint not arriving with me briefly passed, what stuck to my mind was the lack of smell. The goblins were vicious looking with wicked glints in their eyes, yes, but not a single one of them looked or smelled the way goblins normally tend to, or even Others that take on Goblin-esque traits had a habit of doing. There wasn't any notable inconsistency in how they looked compared to how a human would. Some had scars, but they were old, and didn't fester or drip maggots or blood, and weren't held open haphazardly by buts of rusted metal. Some were ugly, but not in the vague outline of genitalia. Sharp teeth, yellow eyes, no hair, no nudity, and all with greenish skin.

They weren't anything like the vicious Others that plagued everywhere, when you compared them. But still, they were goblins, of a sort, and I knew it was so, because every goblin of the third tier tended to have a similar base, even if there were... differences.

Whether it be goblins like Mugscorcher, who had drunken enough disposable lighter fluid and embedded enough bootleg fireworks onto the engorged acne holes in his face to projectile vomit rockets of rotten, flaming garbage, or Gremlins like Sprocketpumper, who had haphazardly reinforced her own legs and arms with car suspension springs, goblins of a similar tier usually had some similar core body plan, even if time and experience can change that drastically. 

I turned back to Amadeus, who was gauging my reaction as Wekesa stood there, impatiently waiting for me to hurry up, which was something that made me want to spend longer gawking and trying to piece together how this place in particular worked, rather than relent to his needs.

Still, I had a tent to visit, and a meeting to have, so I did follow the pair. I also, very wisely, kept an eye on the Goblins, who made lingering glances when they thought I couldn't see them, and toothy grins when I could.

What _truly_ unnerved me was that when I looked at them with my Sight, they didn't change more than they should. They were, as far as I could conclude, no less or more mundane as a Deer would be, or Innocent humans were.

Something that should be, frankly, impossible. Even if this was some rogue demense, some distant location so far away from the sea of solomon, the Sight should have picked up on _something_.

More things that didn't fit. Others didn't fit in neat categories, and neither did magic, but this was outside the already loose boundaries I'd expected.

When the tent opened, I saw four figures and one human, or, on second thought, three people, two of them changed by magic, and two Others. A female goblin sat across from a larger, male goblin who very obviously didn't fit with the surprisingly uniform bodyplan most goblins here had. Both wore a similar uniform of armour, but resized to fit their differing sizes.

The smaller goblin stopped talking as soon as I entered the tend after black, eyeing me with her yellow eyes carefully.

The larger, darker green goblin with one eye showed off his oversized tusks, only for a moment, before turning his full attention towards Amadeus.

The first human was a black man wearing the military uniform that the goblins in the tent, and, thinking of it, the goblins and humans outside wore.

The second one was a massive olive-skinned woman wearing grey armour, a cloak and wielding a massive, spiked hammer that, when I took her in fully, made her look like a particularly cleaned up Abhuman rather than a normal person, or a person who had been enlarged due to some sort of Giant ancestry, however _that_ worked.

The third human felt like she'd spent some time in the abyss, or had let spirits gain too much of a foothold. Hard to notice, even more so when she stood at the back of the tent, and ink stained from the tips of her fingers to parts of her forearm, as if she'd fallen into a vat of ink moments ago.

"Black Knight," the large goblin said, full of respect, and saying the word in away that echoed across me, making me pay attention to the words.

"Marshal Grem. This is Rosalyn D. Thorburn. We found her wandering the desert."

Grem, the large goblin with a very ungoblin-like name, assessed me with his single eye, alongside the others.

"She's a guest, and I'd like to privately talk to her with _Named_ only."

He said that word oddly.

The two goblins and the man in the military uniform got up and left without a word, but the shorter one still kept her eyes on me, until the tent flap closed behind her.

"You don't normally pick strangers out of a sandstorm, Black."

The giant woman said that, sitting down on a wooden seat around the makeshift table made from crates.

"Not every stray is important, Captain," Amadeus smiled. "This one however, is."

I let out a breath to relax myself, and took a step further into the space of the tent. Too many mistakes, too long spent on the back foot, trying to get my bearings.

I felt like I was a child again, scrambling about and trying to regain a semblance of _normalcy_ that felt foreign.

"You usually don't involve yourself with Stories, Black," the large woman - Captain, from the way her name resounded and from what I've deducted from experience - spoke aloud. "If it wasn't for the fact she isn't obviously Named, and the fact Warlock would have killed her if she tried, I'd have suspected she had something done."

"Your concern is noted," Wekesa dryly intoned before dismissing it. "She doesn't have the Gift, but she does keep using use some form of scrying with her eyes, like now."

I stopped using my Sight as everyone turned towards me.

"How about we trade one question for one question," I ventured. "I think it's very fair, all things considered. After all, we both want information the other presumably has, am I correct?"

Wekesa considered the offer.

"Yes," he said slowly. "We do."


	3. "That's a very interesting proposition."

When considering anything, one has to word themselves perfectly. Lies by omission, half truths, memory holes and even weasel words can very quickly turn their boons into follies, even more so when one has many reasons to watch what they say lest the spirits judge you poorly.

Wording was even more important when dealing with others, as words were tools and poorly considered words were as dangerous as a starving tiger in a cage that was left unlocked and opened wide.

As such, it was good to practice the art of crafting sentences. I chose to be a lawyer for that reason. The definitions of words, the correct application of them, and solid argumentation was the trade of any decent lawyer and any diabolist who wished to survive past their first summoning of a demon, be it mote, imp or fully mature.

I wanted my first question to be one that couldn't be gamed easily. Carelessly asking 'where am I?' would deservedly guarantee a reply of 'in a tent', from hostile and helpful Practitioner and Other alike. Hostile because such easy bait will _always_ be taken, and helpful because such a mistake _must_ be punished to prevent bad and potentially fatal habits from forming.

Not only that, it was the wrong line of questioning. Amadeus mentioned a Dread Empire of Praes, which cut out the entire question of location. I knew 'where', but not 'why', 'how', or 'what'. Why was I here in particular? What is this place? What value does it have? How, exactly, did I arrive here instead of simply passing on?

Niggling feelings of a purpose, a expectation that I'd inevitably fall into some habit for other actors, such as Mann, Levinn and Lewis, or the Abyss itself.

I came to a decision on what my first, most important question would be. I'd decided on one that would provide information that I could build upon; both opening future avenues for follow-up questions that were important, while closing any fruitless line of questioning.

Asking about terminology was useless. I'd compiled enough books to now hat any single grouping of other likely has a dozen names in a single language, so the most important thing to do is garner an understanding of how things are done, firstly. The question of 'why' can follow later.

Gently taking the cup of ta offered, I took a small sip. It wasn't too hot or cold, something which was incredibly rare in my prior experiences, due to the karmic debt I had to bear simply acting to make every possible thing as inconvenient as possible.

After gently putting the cup and saucer down on the crate turned table.

"Wekesa, you've said before that I do not have 'the Gift'. What exactly is this 'Gift' as described by the average person who has rudimentary knowledge of it?"

Amadeus visibly changed his expression to one that was very clearly thinking, parsing everything.

"It would be the gift of magic, the uncommon ability to see or use magic," The Warlock replied, uninterested in what I was actually asking him. No, when I looked further it wasn't disinterest; He was annoyed, just so slightly. "How exactly did you get here?"

A softball. It was expected from the man, he knew what he was after and didn't really need much else.

My problem is that I don't truly think I can provide what he wants, or more accurately, I cannot provide him something that implied a need to keep me alive an longer than strictly worded. That, in of itself was both telling and worrying, because my safety, while only secured from ' _companions_ ', never included the entire _army_ outside the tent. I needed to find a way to be of use with what I had, and to do that, I needed to bait him into wanting me around.

"I believe that when I died," I said slowly, "something intervened and sent me to this place, rather than anywhere else."

"So you have no idea."

_Correct, but I'd say the same as an answer to that question if I did know. I never spoonfed my own children, grandchildren, or Aimon, Laird and Alister Behaim, I'm not going to be generous to a stranger, especially when giving too much too quickly may mean I'm summarily fed to the wolves outside._

"I don't recall the full circumstances of my travel," I said, truthfully, "But I do thoroughly know that I am supposed to be deceased in some manner, with my soul passed on."

"You're very Praesi in how you speak," Amadeus said. "Usually, it's either diabolists or those who are stupid enough to regularly make deals with fairies of Arcadia that are _that_ careful with their wording, and usually for good reason."

I made a point not to react in an obvious manner, as best as I was able. I slowly closed my eyes, took another sip of tea and savoured the odd taste, and then put it back down before opening them again. He was fishing. Pulling out information by not asking _questions,_ but making provocative statements and seeing how I reacted.

"if you wish to ask me a question," I said gently but still firmly, "I would prefer that you wait your turn, per the terms we agreed upon."

He smiled thinly. "Wekesa's the one who is curious about this. We're just indulging him."

The woman who was so very close to being mistaken for a bogeyman had left at some point while I was talking to Wekesa. "Hm."

And not only that, I also _understood_ what was going on. Amadeus was fishing what he wanted, but he was doing it gently enough I couldn't really complain. I didn't blame the man, it's only normal to do so from a position of power.

A distraction, anyway. Not that he was trying to distract me, it's that I had more personal inklings to go on. Who would benefit?

The Abyss was, on further thought, irrelevant to the question of 'who sent me here', and 'why was I sent here' as it was made of change, but change in a particular way, and emissaries of the Abyss were either changed by the Abyss into bogeymen themselves, or particularly in-tune scourges.

That left, more dangerously, the firm. The Lawyers that were directly subservient to the whims of the seven choirs having a use for me, even after I'd avoided joining and the danger that entailed to my plans meant very little good for anyone, and if the demons got to do what they wanted, very little _anything_ in general.

"Wekesa, how is the Gift of magic normally acquired, if explained by a layman?"

"You are born with it," Wekesa replied, before considering something, and then letting his eyes light up. "Your little trick is _learned._ That's very interesting."

"If you want me to teac-"

"No," the Warlock cut me off. "I'm already devoted to Trismegistan magic."

I frowned at that, and I felt like my own nonplussed response was another tell itself. Not knowing something, and thus, giving away too much because the Black Knight beside him had provided the hint and idea that he could simply take information from me by talking an then gauging my reactions or lack of knowledge.

I was disappointed that it worked so _easily_ , and that I would have to think hard to understand and piece together exactly what I gave away for free.

Then there was the rule of three, lingering there as the questions took their turns being asked. If they did it again, I might have given out something crucial if I wasn't careful enough to counter it.

The Warlock asked his second question of three. "Are you able to create pathways, portals, or any form of access to places that would be outside of this realm, Rosalyn?"

"Yes," I said simply. After all, it _was_ true.

The Warlock looked at Amadeus, who simply shrugged.

"I'd like to hire your magical expertise, Thorburn."

He's very glad I didn't take a sip of tea then. This wasn't where I'd expected this to go.

"That's a very interesting proposition."

"I have ongoing research regarding places outside of creation and the limits of how this reality is assembled, Rosalyn. I want to see how the basic laws and rules of reality that this world is assembled from, like gravity and time come apart when separated from Creation. It's much easier to skip pretences and say that I'd be willing to pay for your services and assistance."

"I see. We can consider it after the last round of questions, if you don't mind?"

"Go ahead," Wekesa replied with a smile.

"You and Amadeus say titles such as Warlock and Black Knight, but it has magic in it, from what I can sense. What is that, from a layperson's perspective?"

"What those are, Rosalyn, are Names. Mantles of power that are given by Gods Above or Below for various reasons, like championing a cause, achieving a well sought after goal, or killing the last person with the title. That is what Names are."

I was reminded of what I wrote to Molly and any heiresses to the Hillsglade House after her death, which would have been inevitable, if things went according to plan. Practitioners never were for fame, because the practice was usually a case of balance. Trading in time, effort and resources for boons.

He was called Warlock, and that wasn't a title that implied good things. A man with his supposed reputation, his desires... He was very, very dangerous, not to himself, not to others, but to everything. The kind of man who damned my past life an his own ancestors with karmic debt.

And still, he was my only option.

Wekesa looked directly into my eyes. "Would you like to work as an assistant and advisor to me, for stable pay and accommodation?"

"Yes," I said, knowing what exact kind of madness I was getting into.


	4. "I'm going to regret destroying this,"

There was a lesser, rather mischievous wind spirit in the city of Nok that I had captured and put in a jar. it was wafting the smell of rotting fish over the markets at a slow enough pace that it made people queasy, and as such, occasionally reconsider buying food or entering the street stalls there. Left to its own devices, the spirit could possibly accrue power, feasting on the hesitation, avoidance and disgust, becoming something _more_.

But that was a _could have_. Suleiman bin Daoud's seal likely had never reached the Others here, along with other, more fascinating changes to the arcane and esoteric ecosystem. The lack of seal in question meant that Others here were more malleable ans capable of being an actual part of the world, but, unlike where I was born and where I had died, there seemed to be vastly different rules and practices.

This was beyond a Path of the Finders, certainly.

I was assured in all but direct confirmation from Mr. Beasley or the rest of his firm that this was definitely something that they had a hand in. The degree and activity of said hand was the question.

The foul wind spirit wasn't the only Other I'd managed to collect over the last two days in Nok. Due to a culturally accepted proclivity towards murderous backstabbing and ambition (alongside other, more _curious_ features of this world), there was no lack of death, no lack of interesting echoes and vestiges from said deaths, and no lack of spirits dedicated to a particular death, either.

Take Bashir Jagne, for instance. He was from a _mfuasa_ family to the Kebdana family in Thalassania, Praes' port city, which made it very ironic that the man was found drowned in a barrel of alcohol that was being shipped back from Thalassania to Nok.

The sensation of drowning and the sharp burning feeling of inhaling and drinking alcohol combined into a particularly nasty dagger that would do more than wound anyone cut by it, making the wounds sting more than they should.

It wasn't a perfect fit. If I bound the echo to a bottle, I could have made a 'trick' bottle that when liquids were stored inside and then and poured from would unerringly have a habit of going down the wrong hole, burning the whole way. If I applied it to a cloth it would possibly have slowly drowned anyone whose face was wrapped in it.

Luckily (or unluckily depending on how you look at it), Bashir wasn't the only untimely death nearby. An Orc by the name of Garn of the Desert Tusks had been chasing someone down for some debt related reason, and it turned nasty as they ran into the back alleys of the city, only for her allies - two Ogres and a Goblin - to attack Garn as he was distracted with cornering his would-be victim in a dead end. Being crushed alive is something that undoubtedly leaves an _echo_ , and that echo of a weighty hammer being slowly pressed down, taking the air away from you was useful to have applied to a simple stave.

I was already at the commandeered building Warlock was residing in for the moment as we discussed how I could help his project.

Which led me to gather power and useful equipment for the short journey I was going to make with him.

I opened the door, and he didn't even look up as I placed the jar holding the spirit on a table.

"You know, if you need more 'Echoes', as you've described them, Assassin can-"

"You've offered before, and I've refused the help at the time. I refuse it again, because I'd prefer that needlessly creative deaths aren't caused because I'm looking for the correct materials," I said firmly. "Besides, I have enough materials."

Wekesa turned around. "So we venture into Limbo today."

"Only temporarily. The place is incredibly hostile, and that's just traversing through it. No only that, the-"

"I understand the possibility of cross-realm magical influence, Thorburn."

I frowned.

"What I mean to say is that if you are correct, then this place is even vastly more deadly than I can explain. There's a kind of story from my own realm that the creatures native to this place are inspired by and inspire. It's why we're going together, without anyone else. It should ensure nobody dies."

"You never explained how the story goes, exactly," Wekesa said as I drew the magic circle. Two snakes, coiling, each eating the other's tail. More elaborate than normal, but I felt that a stronger circle may help with things.

"Oh, it's simple. A group of people venture too far into the woods, or mess with something they shouldn't. As a result, they are killed by a particularly hard to put down monster one by one, until the last victim, usually a virgin woman, fends off the killer - sometimes."

Wekesa frowned. "A difficult to kill monster shouldn't be that dangerous, and I don't get the virgin qualifier."

He was right. Slasher horror movies tended to be a strong subversion to the usual fare, however... "The genre in question was a creative interpretation to a very deadly disease. A lot of people died, and as it was happening, creative people wrote stories that were inspired by it, or stories that reflected their feelings about the disease."

Wekesa chewed on that for a moment. "Black is much better at namelore than I," he said slowly. "I can see where you think that. If namelore takes precedent, it's good to be wary, especially if it reinforces Limbo's already dangerous nature."

"The Others from limbo, the Bogeymen, are dangerous, some more than others. We'll capture and bind the first few that can be reasoned with, and then quickly leave. The initial idea was one each, with a preference for you?"

"That was the suggestion, Rosalyn."

"I insist you call me Rose. Rosalyn is what I was called by colleagues when I was a contract and employment lawyer."

"And I'm not a colleague?" The Warlock asked me, curiously.

"We aren't dealing with legalities here."

The circle was finished, and thus, there was the last ingredient.

"Since I don't have anything of value," I said, "It'll have to be yours."

Wekesa reached for something in his pocket, reconsidered, and then took off a ring. "I'm going to regret destroying this," he said, as he placed it in the centre of the circle and then blasted it with a quick spell.

The blast went through the ring, through the circle, and straight into the sudden darkness that stretched far below where it should be, finally stopping when it hit a stone wall propped up in the sand. We both stepped back as the abyss slowly began to take over the room.


End file.
